Chapter 172
Evelyn's POV
I didn't know how long I stood in that corridor.
One hand pressed against the wall to keep myself upright. Every shallow breath made my broken ribs burn. The hospital gown hung loose on me. Bandages were wrapped tight around my torso. My bare feet were numb against the cold tile.
About thirty feet away, Nikolai stood frozen. His phone was still in his hand. I knew his face better than my own after five years of brutal training, five years of watching him orchestrate death with cold precision—the same precision he'd used to almost kill me.
But now his expression was different. Not anger. Not the calm calculation of a spymaster weighing assets and losses. It was something raw. Something almost human. Something that looked a lot like grief.
I'd heard everything. Every word of his conversation with Viktor. The order to dissolve Kholod within forty-eight hours. The admission that he was doing it because of me. The way his voice had cracked—just slightly, barely perceptible, but I'd been trained by him to notice such things—when he'd mentioned my mother's death.
Maria. He'd called her Maria.
My mother had a name. Had a life before desperation and debt and those loan sharks. Had loved this man standing in front of me. Had carried his child—me—for two months before walking away from Moscow because he'd let her go.
The silver cross felt heavy against my collarbone. Warm from my body heat. A tangible connection to a woman I'd never really known and a past I'd spent years trying to forget.
Nikolai hadn't moved. Hadn't spoken. Just stood there looking at me with that expression that made my chest tight with something I couldn't name. In the harsh fluorescent lighting of the corridor, I could see the gray threading through his dark hair. The lines around his eyes. The way his shoulders—always so rigidly military-straight—seemed to carry an impossible weight.
He looked old. Tired. Human in a way that made my carefully constructed anger waver.
But then I remembered Vorkuta. The ice. The pain. The way he'd broken me down piece by piece until there was nothing left but the weapon he wanted me to be. The way he'd looked at me during training sessions with those cold, assessing eyes that saw only potential utility. Never a daughter. Never a person.
Never anything but an asset to be honed.
My hand tightened on the wall. The movement sent fresh pain lancing through my ribs—ribs he'd broken two days ago—and I had to bite down hard on my lower lip to keep from making a sound. I wouldn't give him that. Wouldn't show weakness. Not to the man who'd taught me that weakness meant death.
But something in my face must have betrayed the pain anyway, because Nikolai flinched. Actually flinched. His free hand came up slightly, an aborted gesture that might have been reaching toward me, before he caught himself and let it fall back to his side.
"Evelyn." My name came out rough. Uncertain. Nothing like the commanding tone I'd grown accustomed to. "You should be resting. Your injuries—"
"I heard you." My voice was steadier than I'd expected. Cold. Flat. The voice of the operative he'd created. "On the phone. With Viktor. You're dissolving Kholod."
He went very still. That particular stillness that meant he was recalculating. Reassessing. Trying to determine how much I knew and what I planned to do with that knowledge. Old habits. The instincts of a man who'd spent forty years in the intelligence game.
But then something shifted in his expression. The walls came down—not completely, but enough that I could see the exhaustion underneath. The bone-deep weariness of someone who'd carried too many secrets for too long.
"Yes." Simple. Direct. No attempt to deflect or deny. "I gave the order ten minutes ago. Viktor is implementing shutdown protocols as we speak."
"Because of me."
It wasn't a question. I'd heard him say it. But I needed to hear him confirm it. Needed to understand why the man who'd turned me into a weapon was now dismantling his entire empire.
Nikolai's jaw tightened. For a moment I thought he might retreat behind that cold professional mask. Might give me some tactical explanation about changing geopolitical landscapes or operational security concerns.
But he didn't.
"Yes," he said again. His voice quieter now. Almost gentle. "Because of you."
The corridor seemed to shrink. All those thirty feet of distance collapsing into something much more intimate. Much more dangerous. I'd faced down armed men without flinching. Had killed without hesitation. Had survived torture and training that would have broken most people.
But this—standing here in a hospital gown with broken ribs, looking at my biological father and hearing him admit that he was destroying everything he'd built because he'd hurt me—this was terrifying in a way combat never was.
"I don't understand." The words came out before I could stop them. Vulnerable. Confused. Everything I'd been trained never to show.
"You spent five years turning me into this. Breaking me down and rebuilding me into a perfect weapon. And now—" I had to stop. Swallow hard against the tightness in my throat. "Now you're just going to dissolve the organization? Walk away from everything?"
"Not walk away." Nikolai took one careful step forward. Then stopped, as if afraid sudden movement might spook me. "I'm trying to set things right. Or as right as they can be after—" His voice caught. "After what I've done."
"You can't set it right." The anger came flooding back. Hot and sharp and so much easier to handle than the confused tangle of other emotions. "You can't just decide to play father now and expect that to erase five years of hell. Five years of—" My breath hitched. Pain from the ribs. Or maybe from something deeper. "You broke me. You turned me into a killer. You—"